When Words Go Wrong
That time my voice went still: the words were said -
I could not take them back.
I asked if I might be
forgiven, never dreaming
you could receive
my meaning clean, unscarred
beneath the spoken.
Words that fail
earn no reprieve,
but mercy doesn't crack.
You saw me stall:
your voice came in
like music on my head
as if you hadn't heard
as if no code were broken.
Forgiving leaves us young
in sharing.
Having skill
to let no hurt
invalidate our art -
how then can we grieve
when words go wrong?
Or who can banish caring?
